If Marc Emery is the Prince of Pot, I'm the King! (upinsmoke) wrote in forgotten_gods, @ 2009-12-27 21:29:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | lgbtq culture, marijuana |
Who: Marijuana, Highway mortals, a bit of Glibt and Tommy, and open to anyone who wants to drop by, although it could stand by itself as a narrative.
What: Remembering Dave Henderson.
Where: The Highway back room.
When: Sunday, 4 PM.
Warnings: Language, drug use.
The room was moderately full, and yet, quieter than one would expect for such a gathering, certainly quieter than when it was merely Marijuana and his mortals hanging out and playing video games or toking. The only sounds came from the low, murmured voices, came from the large TV that was playing hours worth of footage; everything from Dave's eighteenth birthday party, to a few minutes of Dave singing in the shower and then throwing a shampoo bottle at the camera man - Marijuana, of course - to the smallest little moments; Dave writing, Dave weighing up counts, Dave working, Dave laughing, Dave- Marijuana turned his head away from the screen and concentrated on the mortal beside him. "There was this one time, I was feeling down. I think I had been fighting with Bryn. And he could tell I was feeling like shit." Cam paused, running a hand through his hair anxiously, Marijuana's coaxing, soothing eyes on him flickering with sadness for a moment; that anxious habit was one Cam had picked up from Dave, who had picked it up from Marijuana. "So he sat down beside me at the counter. In three minutes, he had scrawled me out a poem on a McDonalds napkin. It was sweet, funny, brilliantly written, and when he handed it over, he blushed like it was nothing and everything at the same time." Cam fiddled with a bedraggled napkin, folding it in half and smoothing it out carefully. "It was everything."
Marijuana squeezed his second's hand before standing, catching a split second of Dave throwing himself across the coffee table to hug Marijuana after being given a motorcycle for his twenty-first birthday before he again forced his gaze away from the television screen to wander over the small groups of people milling around, looking at pictures, talking. His eyes slowed, stuttered to a halt at the sight of Heroin in the shadows but Marijuana swallowed hard, smiled tentatively, lovingly, and was about to start over him when one of his rival kingpins entered with a small entourage. Marijuana was distracted as Wes appeared at his right shoulder, Cam at his left, "Alec." Marijuana greeted smoothly, inclining his head just slightly, shifting so the gun strapped to his chest was visible under his jacket as his eyes bored into those of the bulky, intimidating man before him, the man that controlled most of the drug trade in Queens. "I hope things are well in your part of the world." Tense pleasantries were exchanged, the kingpins' seconds were introduced, the bodyguards remained silent and wary until the pretenses were dropped and Alec stepped in close. "I'm sorry for your loss." Said dealer to dealer, man to man, there were no need for more words. Marijuana's rival stepped back, hardened his face and swept out of the room and the shop, Wes sending a guard out to trail them until they were firmly out of Marijuana's territory.
Marijuana's shoulders slumped, gaze going back to the shadows but quick enough, Matt was sliding up to him, pushing a photograph into his hand and resting his head on his boss' shoulder. "That was before you saved me, right?" Red-rimmed, mortal eyes stared up into tired, godly green and Marijuana nodded briefly as he stared down at the picture for a moment. "Yeah, Matty-boy. That was us. The four of us. My three." He gave Matt a soft smile. "And then I found you." His voice was fond, soothing, affectionate, as he reached out to thread a gentle hand through the young mortal's hair. "And you completed us. And Davey had to go but we're still complete." Matt sounded like a child and looked like one as well as he blinked up at Marijuana. "Promise?" The waver in his voice almost broke Marijuana's heart but he leaned down to press a kiss to the mortal's cheek. "Promise."
Matt forced a smile, pressed the picture against Marijuana's heart and turned to go talk to one of the guards. The picture threatened to flutter to the ground but Marijuana reached out, grasping it tightly. His hand shook, both hands shook, at the thought of it falling to the floor. He had saved it, saved images and videos, Dave's clothes, Dave's poems but he hadn't been able to-
A beer was shoved roughly into his free hand and Marijuana looked up into the dark eyes of his bodyguard, blinking back tears the god hadn't even noticed were forming. "Let's get some air, yeah, boss?" Wes' voice was its usual gruff tone but Marijuana knew his friend well enough to hear the pain behind the words. Nodding absentmindedly, and only glancing back toward his husband, lurking on the outskirts, once before Wes guided him out of the back room, past the counter and out into the cold air. They sat on the steps, Marijuana slumping and Wes sitting at attention, still on the alert for threats against his boss and his home. They were silent for several long minutes, both drinking from beer bottles as if they needed it as much as the air in their lungs. Marijuana lit a joint. Wes surveyed the street. Until...
"You know, I've killed for both pleasure and purpose." Marijuana lifted his head to regard his bodyguard with silent permission to continue. It was rare that Wes spoke about emotions; Wes barely spoke in full sentences. "But I haven't- I haven't felt loss like this before. There's a hole." For a moment, he looked like he was going to continue speaking but he fell silent. Marijuana just nodded. "The hole doesn't go away, that emptiness doesn't fade. Every beloved I've lost over the decades have been like a knife to my heart. All we can do, Wes, is remember and continue. Continue working, continue loving. Especially continue loving. Don't think I haven't noticed the way you look at Matt when you think no one is watching-"
Wes' glare was hard and filled with denial but at least there was humour back in his voice again. "Hey, bossman? Shut the fuck up." Marijuana couldn't hold back the somewhat subdued grin as he reached out, clinking the neck of his bottle against the neck of Wes'. "Fair enough. You ready to head back in?" His hulking bodyguard sighed lightly, looked like he wanted to ask Marijuana something but he filed the question away in the back of his mind, like he had filed away so many others of its kind. "Yeah." Marijuana clapped Wes on the shoulder and pretended not to notice the one tear that snaked down his bodyguard's cheep, wiped away before it reached Wes' beard.
Back inside, Marijuana again focused on the television screen until he felt an overly familiar presence slip up beside him, a less - but still welcome - familiar presence a few steps behind. The Marijuana Party smiled tentatively up at his father. "Hi, Dad." Marijuana's smile was relieved, almost gleeful, as he hugged Tommy tightly against his side. "Heya, kiddo. You have fun with your Uncle Glibt?" Tommy nodded slowly. "We had Christmas dinner, went skating, and watched all the Christmas specials..." Tommy trailed off, his attention drawn by the images of the now-dead mortal still playing on the screen, a contemplative, confused frown on his face. "Tommy, why don't you go talk to Cam about the most recent profit margins?" Marijuana's son nodded, squeezing his father's hand before slipping away to slid down into the couch next to Cam, taking the joint offered by the mortal and sliding easily into discussion of numbers, accounting, and ways to boost profits.
Both Marijuana and Glibt watched the young god, paternal worry in both their eyes. "You know, he doesn't fully understand what happened." Glibt murmured quietly, crossing his arms over his chest and glancing over at the Drug beside him with worry that wasn't paternal in his eyes. "I tried to talk to him about it, but..." Glibt trailed off and Marijuana nodded tiredly. "I'll give it a go." The two remained silent for a long moment, Glibt watching the image of one of his people play out on the sceen with a heavy heart. "He was a good man." Glibt finally said somberly. There was nothing else to say; Glibt wasn't about to place the blame on Marijuana or on Heroin. Death wasn't a situation that had any room for blame, not this death. "Yes." Marijuana's reply was simple and Glibt sensed that the older god didn't really feel like talking. Still, Glibt glanced between Marijuana and Marijuana's husband, still engulfed by the shadows playing off the walls, and for a moment, his gaze was all-too-knowing. "And if you need anything..."
"Glibt?" Marijuana tilted his head toward Tommy's 'uncle', the corners of his lips quirking up. "Stay the fuck out of my head." Glibt laughed sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Give your husband my regards." Those were his last words to Marijuana before, with a skittish glance in Heroin's direction and a smile in Tommy's, Glibt left the Highway, left Marijuana to his contemplation.
The Drug sank down into a comfortable arm chair, barely noticing when Wes shoved another beer into his hand, and watched the images of his dead beloved play on repeat.